Chasing Butterflies
by cloudosaurus
Summary: "A movement across the clearing catches his eye, and Matt watches bewildered as a tuft of blond emerges from the tangled body of a dense shrub. It's Mello, who stands up, dusts his knees, and doesn't notice Matt." Mello chases butterflies. Matt watches him. [Wammy's Era. Introspective vignette.]


The day is cool and crisp even though the sun is shining in a cloudless sky, and Matt thinks it feels like autumn instead of spring.

Mello is seven and he is eight and they are outdoors with all the other orphans at Wammy's because Watari says they need Vitamin D, although Matt had seen rather than heard his mustached mouth mumble something about not wanting L's successor to be a carbon copy of the prototype. But that's alright - Matt has never particularly wanted to be like the man with strange hair and dark eyes who sometimes acts more childish than any of the children - so he doesn't tell this to the others.

He sits under a leafless tree with his knees drawn to his chest and watches his small, pale fingers get lost in a patch of bright green grass as he places a hand on the damp ground. The thin blades have grown warm in the sunlight, and they feel nice against his skin.

They're delicate, and Matt's stomach tightens as he finds himself suddenly concerned about the fate of all the blades of grass that must be getting crushed underneath his body, but then he tells himself that he's being silly and looks up at the sky instead.

He can see it clearly - an endless expanse of blue that makes him think of Mello's eyes - because even though winter has ended, all the branches are still bare. There are no leaves, no flowers, not even any buds. Just the brown skeletons of tall trees. Which is strange since there are butterflies flitting about unsurely in the still morning air, and Matt's stomach starts to tighten again because won't the butterflies starve if there are no flowers.

A movement across the clearing catches his eye, and Matt watches bewildered as a tuft of blond emerges from the tangled body of a dense shrub. It's Mello, who stands up, dusts his knees, and doesn't notice Matt. Matt wants to ask Mello what he's doing but doesn't want to shout and besides, you could never really tell which way something was going to rub Mello, and he's not in the mood to find out.

So, Matt continues to watch as a butterfly lands on Mello's nose for the briefest of moments before fluttering away almost apologetically. It's tiny, with wings that are yellow-green like it couldn't decide on a colour to be, and so thin that they are translucent. It comes Matt's way before disappearing into a hollow log where it's swallowed by darkness, so Matt returns his gaze to Mello.

Mello is standing more stupefied than he's ever seen him, and if it weren't for the hands placed on his hips in a decidedly Mello manner, Matt might have been worried. As he looks on, something about Mello's expression changes. His eyes come into sharp focus and the childish curves of his face seem to become linear with determination, so that he almost looks older than he really is. But not quite, because the hint of a pout still lingers on his lips.

Mello spends the rest of the morning chasing butterflies. He scampers around big rocks and over gnarly roots and doesn't once look away from the little specks of life that he's bent on catching. Once, Mello falls, and Matt can see crushed green grass cling to Mello's bloody knee, and Mello's red blood cling to the dirt where the grass had been, but Mello still doesn't stop. If anything, he goes about his self-imposed task with a certain kind of vengeance, taking longer strides and higher leaps even though his eyes glisten wet with tears. Matt would have cried.

The longer Mello chases them, the higher the butterflies seem to fly, always close to Mello's short, grasping fingers but never close enough.

It's when Mello is after a butterfly so miniscule that it makes the sky appear infinite, and runs away from Matt to disappear amongst the dark trunks of great trees, that Mello suddenly seems as fragile as the thing he's chasing. And Matt's heart leaps into his throat as though it's going to jump past the bleeding lips that his teeth are biting to chase Mello. But it doesn't. Not this time. So instead, he rips the baby blades of grass that his grip has been steadily tightening around out of the soft earth. Matt stares at the green stains on the pale palms of his hands and the dead grass scattered at his feet before he realizes what he's done, and his mouth tastes bitter because it had been fragile, too.


End file.
